The Menagerie 2 (Eden) (20 page)

The shape passed through the symbol of the Ankh, and moved cautiously toward their position.

Alyssa closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered to the Tally-Whacker. “I’ll kiss you.”

Quasimodo hesitated, stunned by her acceptance. And then: “Well, alrighty then.”

She reached up with her hand, cupped the back of his head, and pulled him close. If she held him long enough, she thought, perhaps the shape would take them both.

Their lips met.

#

The shape moved
with the quickness and agility of a hunter. It grabbed Quasimodo from behind by cupping a hand under his chin, lifting the man’s head back to expose the range of his open throat, and attempted to drive the blade across the flesh.

But the Tally-Whacker was quick, bringing his arm up just enough to catch the blade across his forearm, the slice a neat line from wrist to elbow. In response, the Tally-Whacker quickly got to his feet and maneuvered with a reverse head butt, the back of his head meeting with his assailant’s, the shape releasing its hold and falling back.

Quasimodo pivoted on the balls of his feet while trying to un-sling his MP5. But the shape was upon him, the blade of the knife coming across and cutting Quasimodo across the face, another slice that would eventually scar over and add to the network of lines he already had.

The blade came across again, this time missing. Nothing but open air.

Even in the growing darkness Quasimodo could recognize the shape.

Savage!

The former SEAL moved in, blade ready. But Quasimodo came up with his right leg and connected solidly with Savage’s wrist, the knife taking flight from his grasp and landing on the floor, the weapon skating off somewhere in the shadows.

By the time Quasimodo undid his weapon, Savage was on top of him by grabbing the MP5, trying to wrench it free. But the men moved about the floor in a drunken tango, one trying to best the other.

Savage brought his foot up and around, catching Quasimodo at the side of his knee, his leg buckling. The soldier quickly went to the floor on one knee, tried to regain himself, but Savage was quick with his movements. The ex-SEAL came across with an open palm strike to the side of Quasimodo’s head, shattering an eardrum, the pain crippling. In a follow-up motion, Savage took the opportunity of the soldier’s hesitance by taking Quasimodo’s head in both his hands, and twisted.

The crunch of the man’s neck breaking was so audible that it echoed throughout the chamber.

The Tally-Whacker fell to the floor as dead weight, the column of his neck awkwardly crooked.

Savage then removed the killer’s knife and assault weapon, both feeling good within his possession. And then to Alyssa: “My body’s not even cold and already you’re cheating on me.”

Alyssa cupped her hands over her face and began to cry.

Savage leaned down and embraced her. “I was just kidding.”

“I thought you were dead,” she sobbed. She brought her arms up and around him, pulling him tight. “I thought you were dead.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not.” As he got to his feet, he helped Alyssa to hers. And for a long moment they looked into each other’s eyes, seeing the loving warmth of unbridled passion. She then pressed the side of her head to his chest and could hear his heart beating. It was the most wonderful sound she ever heard.

His beating heart.

“We have to move,” he told her softly and gently. “We’re almost home.”

She looked at him. “There’s still two more.”

Savage nodded.
Whitaker and Maestro. Two against one.

He couldn’t help the approaching smile.

He liked the odds.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Whitaker and Maestro stood next to the collar’s entryway.

“Where the hell is he?” asked Maestro.

Whitaker looked at his watch. It had been nearly four minutes.

“How long does it take to cut someone?” Maestro was getting impatient, Whitaker could tell. Nor could he blame him. They had come through hell to get to heaven, losing most of his team to do so. And now they waited for a man who needed to satiate some in-depth sadistic need? And then to Maestro: “Bring his ass back,” he told him. “I’ll open the gateway.”

“Copy that.” Maestro moved off in a manner that spoke volumes of anger. Quasimodo knew better. An order was an order—two minutes was two minutes. And that time had come and gone. Success by design was to follow the second-hand of a watch, since synchronization was everything. Even a moment beyond what was required could cause a man’s death.

As Maestro walked into the feeble glow of distant green light, Whitaker turned, grabbed the wheel leading into the tube, and turned it. When the wheel was at its final rotation he pulled, the door opening, giving view to the walkway inside the Umbilical collar. The tube was on a downward slant, which meant to Whitaker that the marine terrace was beginning to pull away from the wall, the weight of the platform no doubt adding to the landing’s state of fragility.

He then looked down the direction Maestro just took. In the distance the green light was growing fainter, the pulsation slowing down to its final beat.

The ship was dying.

Whitaker sighed, feeling a prickle at the base of his neck.

Hurry up, Maestro. We haven’t got much time
.

The Tally-Whacker was right.

#

“Quasi?” When Maestro
spoke he did so in a whisper. But it was more of a measure that dictated the inconvenience of having been sent back to track down Quasimodo like an adult seeking an irresponsible child. Then once again, but this time louder: “Yo, Quasi?”

When he was met with silence he took an exploratory step forward, vacillating between the ideas of falling back or moving forward. 

Around him the area was growing dark, the last of the pulsating light winding down to a final glimmer.

“Quasi?”

Still no answer.

Maestro then made the decision to advance forward with the barrel of his MP5 leveled, the man moving soundlessly.

He then took the bend, a slight curve that led to the framework of the upside down Ankh, and stepped into the room that was pooling with dark shadows and even darker recesses. The light was quickly ebbing.

“Quasi?”

Maestro, like any creature, sensed great danger. The girl was nowhere to be seen. Quasimodo, however, lay on the floor with his neck broken. There was an unnatural bend to the spinal column at the base of his throat, the bone obviously severed.

The commando raised his weapon. His head was suddenly on a swivel.

Situated in a dark nook between two rib-like structures a shape squatted on its heels, watching. The silhouetted form was indecipherable, but a living mass, no doubt.

Maestro drew a precise bead, hooked his finger around the trigger, and applied four of the five pounds of pressure needed to fire off a volley of deadly shots.

It wasn’t the female.

And then
: Savage!

Maestro stood riveted, the assault weapon poised to kill. “Get up,” he said. And then: “Where’s the woman? Where’s Moore?”

The shape continued to squat.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” said Maestro, backing off a step. The gun remained level. “She’s as good as dead, no matter what shadow you have her stashed away in. Now get up. I’m not gonna to tell you again.” Maestro motioned the point of his weapon in an up-down gesture, the signal for the shape to stand. And it did, slowly, with Maestro’s eyes following the shape’s rise, the figure growing impossibly tall, its shoulders impossibly wide, with Maestro’s head looking upward as if watching the slow trajectory of a rocket, the mass still rising. 

Maestro’s heart hammered away at the wall of his chest. In a warrior fashion he cried out, pulled the trigger, the area lighting up as the muzzle flashes gave light to the Hominid, the bullets striking and deflecting off its armor with the impacts chipping away bits of its shell, the ammo punching the creature back into the shadows. During the flashes of light Maestro could see its blood-red eyes, and the toothy spikes running the length of its forearm. It brought up its opposing forearm, a very thick mass of exoskeleton, to ward off the constant peppering of gunfire.

The Hominid backpedaled, the creature crying out in anger, in frustration.

Maestro continued to press forward, the man yelling and advancing for the final volley.

And then the weapon went dry, the clip empty. In the time it took for Maestro to eject the clip and attempted to seat another, the Hominid was upon him, raking its spiked arm with deadly encounter.

Maestro never knew what hit him.

#

John and Alyssa
saw Maestro before Maestro saw them. So they took to the shadows and allowed the Tally-Whacker to pass them without being noticed.

In the ensuing moments they heard a series of gunshots, quick and steady bursts, with Maestro hollering in a manner Savage took to be a testosterone cry of a warrior rather than a man crying out in abject terror.

And then silence quickly followed, one that was complete and absolute.

Alyssa edged closer to Savage and whispered in his ear. “What was that about?”

“Well, I can tell you this,” he returned. “He wasn’t shooting at thin air.”

He then eased her from the shadows and led her to the collar.

#

Whitaker heard gunfire
, a distant but distinct sound of an MP5.

And then silence.

Whitaker closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Something was out there in the dark, something in hiding. And at its most opportune moment it took out the rest of his team, leaving him to stand alone.

He held his weapon before him in examination, considering the minimal effect it had against these predators. Nevertheless, it continued to give him a sense of false security.

Something maneuvered toward his position. Though he couldn’t see it, he could sense it.

So he grabbed his weapon tighter.

But no matter how forcefully he held his MP5, his sense of false security had escaped him.

He had no confidence at all.

#

The Mist could
feel the sensations of life forces ahead and zeroed in, the light charges going off in dime-sized eruptions, as the spearhead-shaped mass moved toward the front of the ship.

It had no equal, the other apex predators falling prey to its flawless ability to kill. So it did what it was created to do, to thrive and press forward.

With proven speed it honed in to the measure of multiple heartbeats, seeking to stake its claim and abolish all competition. It had no fear, no conscience, no compassion, and no sense of sentiment other than to exist.

So it closed the gap, and quickly.

It would not be denied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Alyssa’s curiosity got the best of her when she turned to study the framework surrounding the upside Ankh, wondering about the ancient script running along the crossbar: ALL LIFE UNDER ONE. But One what? One rule? One universe? One God? Perhaps the vertical bar extending from the top of the teardrop doorway to the ceiling provided the key. But as much as her curiosity piqued to know the answer, her sense of survival was far more paramount.

John Savage continued to lead the way with the point of his weapon forward, their footfalls silent, their breathing controlled and measured.

On the last leg, Savage saw the naval port door leading to the Umbilical collar was open in invitation. They were nearly home, so he picked up the pace. The move, however, was a cardinal sin to a seasoned soldier.

Whitaker moved swiftly from the shadows with his MP5 directed on Savage and Alyssa. “Drop it,” he told Savage, referring to Savage’s firearm. Savage complied, dropping the MP5. Whitaker looked at the assault weapon, then to Savage. “Did that belong to Maestro . . . or Quasi?”

“I don’t know anything about Maestro,” he answered. “The guy walked by us, eventually took to gunfire . . . and then nothing.”

Whitaker believed him. Maestro had obviously taken something on from the Menagerie. “Then there’s something behind you?”

“Maybe.”

Whitaker looked beyond Savage and Alyssa, could see nothing in the waning light. “It doesn’t really matter,” he told them. “I’m the one going home. But you on the other hand, and Ms. Moore, of course, have come to the end of your road. Albeit a difficult one, since you were left for dead. And then to take on Quasimodo . . .” He let his words trail. “Impressive, to say the least.”

Whitaker kept looking beyond Savage and Alyssa, expecting something to step from the darkness.

The moment Whitaker took his eyes off his targets, Savage reached for the combat knife wedged inside his waistband and brought it across in an arc, the blade striking Whitaker’s weapon and redirecting the mouth of the barrel to the left, the weapon going off in a quick burst, the area lighting up with flashes.

Alyssa hit the ground and covered her head, whereas Savage closed the gap between them, the knife coming up and around. But Whitaker was an elite fighter. He quickly brought his weapon across and deflected Savage’s blow, creating a spark that danced and died in the space between them. And then he kicked out, his leg driving Savage back to recreate the space between them. But Savage twisted into the kick and took the blow, remaining in close proximity.

Savage then came across with the point of his elbow and struck Whitaker in the face, the man’s head snapping back and losing sight of Savage. In that moment Savage brought the hilt of the knife across and connected with the bridge of Whitaker’s nose, his flesh paring back into fresh lips of a bleeding wound.

Whitaker staggered far enough away for Savage to lash out in a roundhouse kick and knock the weapon from Whitaker’s grasp, the weapon sailing free.